


Analytics

by evewithanapple



Category: L.A. Confidential (1997)
Genre: Gen, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 12:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8845033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: To be perfectly frank, it rankled.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [partypaprika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypaprika/gifts).



When Ed was a boy, he recalled reading a National Geographic article about how pearls were made. A grain of sand would work its way into a clamshell, he'd learned, and the clam would react to the irritation by forming protective layers around the intruding object. At the time, he'd considered it nothing more than a mildly interesting factoid. As he'd grown older, he'd learned to appreciate the ignoble beginnings of the pearl necklaces that seemed to be the choice of adornment for every woman he crossed paths with. Not being especially interested in wearing pearls, selling pearls, or cultivating pearls himself, the information held very little practical use for him. It wasn't until years later, when he first met Bud White, that the long-ago article crept back to the forefront of his mind. Not because he'd developed any new fondness for the gems, mind you- it was just that he finally understood how deeply, aggravatingly  _irritated_ the clam must feel when being invaded by a foreign article. He thought he might take up pearl cultivation himself, if it had the side benefit of making Bud White  _go away_.

It was difficult, at first, to pinpoint why Bud aggravated him so much. Yes, he was boorish, hot-tempered, and quick with his fists- but so were most of the men in Ed's office. Ed, never a man prone to solving conflicts with brute force, had always disdained those who did- it bespoke a lack of imagination and intelligence, an impatience that kept them from finding better solutions to the problem, and created infinite potential liabilities in their line of work. Ed had spent enough time tidying up the aftermath of other officers' lost tempers that he lacked the slightest bit of patience for their behaviour. The excuse that "it gets us our guy" held very little water with him- it solved the short-term want of a suspect, but it also handed the criminals and their lawyers a gold-plated defence to deploy in court. As such, very little of Bud's approach to his job endeared the man to Ed. But there was something more that irked him, sliding under his skin and rubbing him raw until the very  _sight_  of the man made him grit his teeth. It wasn't until a late night at the office, as Ed went over the day's reports, that it struck him: Bud White, the brutish and bullheaded symbol of all that Ed abhorred in the police department, was  _smart_.

It wasn't the kind of intelligence that Ed normally took notice of- he tended to admire the silent cunning of men like his father or Dudley Smith, who slid through regulations and under locked doors while never breaking a rule or rumpling their uniforms. That wasn’t Bud. Bud preferred to kick doors down and tell regulations to go fuck themselves. But at the same time, looking over his reports, Ed could tell that Bud knew what he was doing. He had the mechanical mind of a detective, clicking from clue to suspect, but he also had the instinct that let him know where to look in the first place. Most of the officers Ed worked with plodded from clue to clue, never brilliant, always stolid. It was why Ed paid them very little attention- he knew who they were and what they were capable of, and they never offered him any reason to give them a second thought. Bud, though. Bud knew what he was doing. Bud, for all that he mirrored the qualitied Ed most disliked in officers of the LAPD, had the makings of a great detective.

To be perfectly frank, it rankled.

It rankled because Ed had spent years carefully cultivating his own instincts as a detective, and seeing someone else come by these talents with no effort felt like a slap in the face. It rankled because Bud was getting results, damn _good_ results, by way of all the techniques Ed hated most. But the biggest reason- the one that really got under Ed’s skin whenever he thought about it, which was often- the _biggest_ reason it rankled was because, by rights, Bud should be higher up in the LAPD than he was. He had the skills. He had the results. He had the record- one of the highest rates of closed cases in the department. (Ed had checked.) But Bud was never going to climb that ladder unless he put some actual goddamn effort into playing politics- and that, Ed knew, was something he’d never do. It wasn’t in his blood. And that pissed Ed off. Part of it was the injustice of it all, the fact that a genuinely deserving officer was inevitably going to be overlooked in favour of idiots with strong family ties. But a much bigger part was the fact that it didn’t need to be that way; Bud could rise in the ranks, if he wanted to. He just didn’t want to.

And who the fuck didn’t want to?

All of this roiled and churned in the back of Ed’s mind for weeks as he watched Bud-and he could admit to himself now that he _was_ watching, and with intent- barrel through cases like an angry bull, solving each one, and never neglecting to give the real scumbags a kick to the gut when he had the chance. There was, Ed had to admit, a certain admirable quality about that- a moral code, not one he particularly shared (there are other, better ways to deal with people like that; ways that will hurt long after a black eye heals over) but one that Bud stuck to, no matter the circumstances. That’s not enough to quell his irritation, though, which continues to build up until one day in the interrogation room, when Bud flips a chair over, narrowly missing the suspect's head, and Ed explodes with "Goddammit White, don't you ever fucking  _think_?"

Bud turns to him slowly. The suspect, who's still quaking in his seat, looks between the two of them like he's not sure what he's more scared of. Then Bud says in a low voice, "The  _fuck_  did you just say to me?"

Ed tenses for a moment, then barks "Outside." He turns on the suspect, who shrinks back, and warns "don't even think about moving," before he stomps out to the hallway. Bud follows at his heels, anger radiating off him like a furnace. His face is turning slowly from red to purple. “I said,” he says, “what. The fuck. Did you say to me?”

Ed tosses the suspect’s file at Bud; it flops against his chest, and it’s only his quick reflexes that prevent the whole thing from sliding to the floor. “Who’s he working for?”

“You didn’t answer-”

“I asked you a _question_ ,” Ed barks. “Who is he working for?”

Bud doesn’t even need to flip the file open to answer. Ed knew he wouldn’t. “Bompensiero.”

“Right.” Ed pins Bud with a steely glare. “Not even one of the big guns like Roselli or DiSimone- _Bompensiero_. So what do you think we’re gonna get shaking that idiot down? He doesn’t know shit, he’s just gonna throw whatever he can at you to get you to back off, and we’ll end up right back where we started. With nothing.”

Veins are bulging in Bud’s neck. “You didn’t see what he-”

“I saw,” Ed says. He knows he sounds impassive, which is only going to rile Bud up more, but he’s not going to put on a show for Bud White’s sake. “So you get him back for it, put him away. So what? There’s a million more like him coming down the pipeline, and it won’t take more than a day for one of them to take his place. You thought the crime scene looked bad? Wait until the new guy’s trying to prove himself. It’ll be a goddamn bloodbath.”

Bud’s still staring at him, murderous, but at least his face is more florid than magenta. “So what’s your take?”

Ed gestures, a flick of his wrist. “Let something slip in front of him. Make him think he’s got a hot tip, then turn him loose. Bompensiero might not fall for it, but if he does, it gives us the opportunity to set up an ambush. We can take out a baker’s dozen of them in one go.”

Bud’s eyes narrow. “Him included?”

Ed sighs. Even with a roadmap, Bud won’t be deterred from his goal. “Yeah, him too. What do you want him so bad for, anyway? The Tosetti hit? That was small potatoes to the big brass. It won’t get you anywhere.”

“It’s called having a fucking conscience, Exley,” Bud says. He yanks the door to the interrogation room open. “See if you can dig yours up sometime.” And he stomps away.

Ed pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers and sighs. He’d tried, anyway. Logic and reason can only get him so far with a man who won't be reasoned with, and that's Bud White to a T. Bud's wrong about one thing, at least- Ed _does_ have a conscience. It's just that he prefers the slow application to the quick satisfaction, the well-oiled gears of a carefully constructed plan to brute force that smashes through everything in its path. There's gratification in the latter approach, he knows, though it doesn't seem to offer Bud any long-term peace of mind.

If he's being truthful, his approach doesn't either. In an uncertain world, extensive plans provide a degree of certainty- but that's all it is, a degree. He can't say with unreserved confidence that his plans will work. Likewise, Bud can't promise that beating the shit out of their suspect will net them a big fish- but it will give him the satisfaction of a job well done, justice served. The momentary relief that comes from scratching an itch. Bud had given himself permission for that. Ed's never been able to.

But he does what he can.


End file.
